a sickness with no cure

You make me sick
And I don’t mean it like one of those catty lines
Written for a daytime soap
Where the woman’s like
“You make me sick!”
To her man
(Because he cheated on her with her sister’s best friend’s cousin’s blind best friend
Or something
And she means to affront his character)
No, not like that
I mean it quite literally.
It’s like there’s this pocket in my brain reserved for pieces of information labeled “______”
Usually I keep it closed tight like a rope walker
But sometimes I flail and fail
And I gorge myself on memories and false hopes and crooked smiles that I
Long ago stashed in said pocket
Like
When I was little I used to sneak into the kitchen after my mom made a cake
And I would just stand there eating it with a fork out of the cake-holder-thingy
Shamelessly, until I was like buhhhhhh that was a bad decision
That’s what I do, in my brain, with you
And sometimes it’s not my fault!
Sometimes I’m walking down Houston and a man walks by
Wearing your exact cologne, I know it, the fucker
And I get a big whiff  
And suddenly I’m back to you
And the gorging begins
And then the fog starts to creep
And that’s not some poetic Frost-like analogy shit
It’s an actual fog in my brain
My eyes get blurry
My throat closes up
My hands get weak
I start to feel like I can’t breathe
My chest hurts.
I sit at dinner and feel like I can barely get down food
I try to talk and laugh, and I do, but I’m not really there, you know?
God, it’s so hard to describe
It’s like I’m super aware of my body
Every vein
Every palpitation
Every tweak, every leak
But $1000 later doctors tell me I’m fine
Bloodwork’s all normal
Well, next to normal
Sigh
You make me sick
Because there’s no antibody
For heartbreak